Free Home by Leila S. Chudori Page A

my friend Risjaf, who was not the kind of man given to open displays of anger. I knew he realized that he had no claim on Rukmini. Therefore, what right did he have to be angry? Even so, I could not allow the situation to continue indefinitely.
    From my point of view, the problem rested with Mas Nugroho, who was completely insensitive to Risjaf’s feelings. He didn’t seem to realize that Risjaf was suffering from a broken heart—eventhough I thought it was apparent to everyone else. Whenever we saw Rukmini stop by at the paviliun across the road, even if it was only for a moment, Risjaf would immediately scurry into his room, hide behind a pile of homework, and not come out again.
    One Sunday, I finally spoke about the situation with Surti, who gave me a look of complete surprise. “What? Risjaf likes Rukmini?”
    â€œYes. Didn’t you know?” In the mortar, I used my pestle to attack the sliced shallots and garlic and chunk of peeled turmeric root, as if they were to blame for keeping Rukmini and Risjaf apart.
    Risjaf was still in the throes of misery, and I had promised myself that on Sunday I would cook up a pot of ikan pindang serani as a means to soothe his heart. Originally an Indo-Portuguese dish, the recipe for this spicy and sour milkfish soup was from my mother, and the taste of the fish which had been simmered slowly in turmeric sauce never failed to cheer me or my brother Aji when my father, who often had to travel for work, was not at home. I hoped that the dish would turn its magic on Risjaf, permitting him to recover and cast his attention on another woman.
    As it was now Tjai’s turn to shadow Risjaf, who had gone to borrow lecture notes from a friend, I had some time to spend alone with Surti, even if I was cooking.
    The cuts of milkfish, sliced shallots, green tomatoes, and citrus leaves were in their respective piles on the countertop and I was now grinding the turmeric with red chilies and garlic. The skin on my hands had turned yellow from the turmeric, and the paste of spice mixture began to splatter as I ground.
    Surti, who was standing next to me, placed her right hand on mine, causing me to stop what I was doing.
    â€œHow was Rukmini supposed to know?” she asked, now stroking my hand. “Whenever Risjaf is around her, he’s as stiff as a statue, like he’s in electric shock.” She smiled gently and looked me in the eye. “I’m very sure that Rukmini is unaware of Risjaf’s feelings towards her.”
    I stopped torturing the spice mixture and wiped my forehead with the back of my arm.
    She was probably right. “Does Rukmini like Mas Nug?” I asked.
    â€œIt would appear so,” she said evenly. Adding another slice of turmeric to the paste, she began to move the pestle. By the way she crushed the root—gently, wordlessly—she seemed to be coaxing the spices to surrender themselves to their individual destruction in order to create a more perfect union of taste, one more pleasing to the tongue. I stared, fixating on her as she slowly turned the wooden pestle in the mortar as if massaging the spicy mixture. I swallowed. My body tensed. I hardly knew what was happening and I was unable to comprehend why her actions excited me so.
    â€œWhat’s clear,” Surti said as she continued to grind the spices (which in turn made me more tense and less able to speak), “Mas Nug is willing to express his feelings. As is Mas Hananto. They are men who know what they want.”
    She was right, of course. Damn the two of them, both of them older and more mature! Both had good jobs, though neither held a college degree. After graduation from high school, Mas Nug had enrolled in Chinese studies at the University of Indonesia but had never completed his degree. For several years, Mas Hananto had been a student in the Faculty of Law, but hadn’t finished his studies either. Even so, regardless of their educational deficit,